A Loyal Son
by Chandinc
Summary: Follow the story of Rahvuun, a World Eater's Captain as the changes of the Great Heresy take him and his Legion towards the path of Chaos's bloodiest warriors.


**Excerpt I:**

"Father," Rahvuun said in a voice not yet tainted by the Butcher's Nails, "your sons have always been by your side. Lead us. We need your guidance more than ever." The demi-god, a master's craftsmanship of science and gene manipulation, the primarch Angron looked to his son.

"I care nothing for any of you. You did not bleed with me on the Fields. I should have been there, I should have stood with my brothers and sisters. I was stolen, and now I am enslaved to lead murderers turned gods." And with this, the Father left his son in the husk of a building that had once held the brightest minds of the planet the Legion had just brought to heel through blood and fire.

"As you command, Sire." Rahvuun said before walking towards the awaiting Thunderhawk.

**Excerpt II:**

In the confines of the dark room, Rahvuun convulsed in agony. An Astartes was physiologically created to withstand pain that would kill a mortal man, but the Nails bit too deep and too hot. The pain was carried further by his twin hearts, circulating the pulsing blood through fiery veins.

"Father, please, remove them!" He had screamed. How many times had he pleaded? Four times? Five? It seemed like an eternity, like they were the only words he had ever spoken in his life. Unknown to him, his Father was watching, and at his shoulder was the Apothecary that had implanted those devices of torment.

"They are not taking well. He will most likely die, excruciatingly, within the next day or so." The white-helmed Apothecary told the towering god. The Father simply watched with uncaring eyes. But something flickered in those blood shot orbs. Familiarity. A connection. A bond. If anything, the Father was slowing becoming apart of his sons. The Butcher's Nails made equals of all.

"He will not. Not here. He will fight and kill and hate and die. But not here." With this, the Father turned, spittle slowly trickling down his twitching lips as his own Nails sang with the need to cause horrible violence. He needed to see blood and hear the death-screams leave failing lungs.

He headed towards the mortal crew deck.

**Excerpt III:**

Blood. There was always blood. His blue gauntlets were a hue of dark purple due to the unwashed stains. Several different civilizations, several different worlds, all stained his hands. His once pristine white armor was now covered in gore.

The sound of war was all around him. Crashing, screaming, yelling, explosions, shooting, crunching. He was alone, cradling his head in his gauntlets, curled in the middle of a pile of blue armored bodies.

The bodies' armor were cracked open and dented. Each bore the sigil of the XIII Legion; an inverted 'U'. Ultramarines. The Sons of Guilliman. Without even knowing it, or wanting to, he had killed warriors just as loyal to the Throne as he was. He had killed them with ease, slaughtering all ten of them with the brutality of a cornered lion.

His armor was dented, and he was faintly aware of the weight in his chest. His twin hearts worked to keep him alive. He was bleeding profusely from several wounds, his armor growled with the sound of badly damaged servos, and worst of all, the Nails still sang.

He heard the crunching of heavy boots coming towards him. He looked up, his vision

drenched in the red of his helm's targeting reticle. The Father approached him, and he struggled to get to his feet.

"Father, I-" He was knocked onto his back, his insides protesting, already trying to fix the previous damage done to his body.

"Control is strength. To give in is to be weak. Weakness is not tolerated. You are no son of mine." The Father looked down on him in disgust. "We will not speak of this to my brother. Return to your warriors, dog." With this, Angron walked away, followed by his elite Devourers. Some looked at the work of his betrayal to a cousin-Legion in shock, others in amusement.

Left alone, surrounded by his treason, Rahvuun got to his feet and walked in the direction his Father had came.

Behind his helmet, his bruised and bleeding lips were split. He smiled a murderer's smile. He knew this would not be the last time he would shed the blood of fellow Astartes.

**Excerpt IV:**

The Conqueror boasted a gladiatorial arena that mimicked its Romanii ancestors. Warriors of the XII Legion surrounded the iron cage. The arena was abuzz with the roars of the watching crowd and the grunts of the battling warriors trading blades.

Rahvuun foresaw this coming. Rumors had spread of his betrayal and the Warrior Kings of the XIII Legion demanded blood. The Father had agreed to his bureaucratic brother and lord of the Five Hundred Worlds' request. A battle until Victorus Aut Mortis: Victory or Death. The XIII Legion had sent one of their champions, a pompous Captain who sported a laurel wreath surrounding his helm. Upon entering The Cage, both warriors shed their armor.

They wore simple cloth pants, Rahvuun's white in respect to his Legion colors, the Captain's, Ventimus, wore blue. Ventimus's face looked as if it were chiseled from marble, mirroring that of Terra's elder Grecioso gods. Rahvuun's was covered in scars, the Butcher's Nails swaying like tribal dreadlocks.

"I will kill you like the dog you are." Spat Ventimus, his gladius pointing at Rahvuun. He simply grinned. The crowd around them bayed for blood; both World Eaters and Ultramarines. Rahvuun clashed his axes together in an 'x' across his chest.

"I will take your skull and eat your eyes." Rahvuun stated as blatant fact. The look of disgust on the Ultramarine's face made him chuckle.

Ventimus sprang into action, slashing diagonally as to cut through Rahvuun's guard. To the Captain's surprise, Rahvuun took the blow, the gladius sinking deep into the meat of his shoulder. Rahvuun's arms burst outwards, cross cutting the Captain's chest. He kicked him square in the stomach, forcing the Ultramarine back.

"I expected more from you noble-born fools." Rahvuun's face was a mixture of ticks and jerks, the Nails buzzing violently in his head. He was slowly losing his sense of self, giving his body over to the Butcher's call. He charged, axes held out wide to either side, meeting Ventimus on his back foot. Both warriors drew blood from the other. Ventimus' gladii skewered into Rahvuun's stomach, while his axes buried themselves hungrily into the side and collar of Ventimus.

The crowd was screaming in a mixture of amusement, concern, and the call for death. It was Rahvuun who was the first to move from their deathly embrace. He headbutted the Ultramarine one, two, three times before the warrior went to his knees. Rahvuun dropped his axes, both falling from the kneeling Captain.

With a grunt of effort, Rahvuun pulled the blade from his belly, licking his own blood as he looked down at the wounded Captain. The warrior looked up.

"You win," He said reluctantly, "allow me leave." Rahvuun laughed at that, strings of pink saliva dripping from his lips. His voice was shakey, not from the pain of his wounds, but of the Nails screaming in his head.

"I told you. I am going to take your skull and eat your eyes." And with this, he sank the edge of the Ultramarine's own gladius deep into his neck, hacking multiple times to get the post-human's head to leave its shoulders. Rahvuun held the head high. Roars of outrage rang from the gathered XIII Legionaries. His brothers chanted not his given name, but his gladiator name.

"Beheader! Beheader! Beheader!"

**Excerpt V:**

The Betrayal had begun. Horus and the forces of 9 traitor Legions had rallied against the rule of the Emperor of Mankind. The All Father.

The XII were but one of the many hands in this alliance of traitors. Already the events of Istvaan III and IV had taken place, hundreds of thousands of Loyalist Legionaries were killed by the hands of those they had once called Brother.

Rahvuun had slayed sixty-four of his own legion, and twelve from varying others. He carried the chainaxe of a Death Guard Legionairy and a short sword of a Salamander. His armor bore the scars of both those battles, his head still filled with the screams and cries of so many brothers being slayed by their own.

But the memory that burned the brightest was watching as his Father killed and murdered hundreds of his sons.

They landed via drop-pod onto the bombed and flattened surface of Istvaan III to neutralize the remaining loyal forces that hid in the hollowed out shells of buildings that had survived the bombardment. The Traitor Legions sought to rid themselves of warriors who still claimed to be loyal to the Imperium, and had sent them to their deaths on this blighted world.

First the bombings came. Then the Legio Titanicus had marched upon the world, the sacred war machines spewing their hate onto the loyalists. And lastly came their wrathful brothers, led by their furious Fathers.

Rahvuun followed his Father, Angron, who bore his twin axes, Gore-Father and Gore-Child. They had reached a deadlock, loyal forces made up mainly of World Eaters supported by the Sons of Horus and Death Guard held an administrative building that gave them the vantage of heavy gun emplacements. The Traitors followed their Father into the killing grounds with promises of death on their lips.

They took massive casualties. Traitor World Eaters died in droves, the loyalists raining their hurt of this terrible betrayal onto their former brothers. But Angron drove on, like a tidal wave of war.

He burst through the large double doors leading into the main complex, brutally hacking down warrior after warrior. Rahvuun saw something that he thought he would never see in the eyes of an Astartes.

Fear.

Angron laughed and howled as he tore through dozens of loyalists, his axes roaring as their teeth became clogged with gore. Angron's life, unbeknownst to him, was measured in seconds. Measured in seconds had it not been for Rahvuun.

A loyalist was lining up a definite kill shot with a heavy plasma cannon from a balcony overlooking the inner complex. With a roar of pain-fueled hate, Rahvuun hurled his gladius at the warrior, the blade sinking into the exposed, unarmored neck seal above the broken and cracked symbol of the two headed Imperial Aquila.

Angron charged into a courtyard further down, and outside of the inner complex. Rahvuun watched as a god of war ran into battle, ignoring hundreds of mass-reactive, fist sized shells colliding into his Father's war plate.

Rahvuun looked down at the body of a Death Guard legionary. The man was twisted awkwardly, and his chest barely rose. He vainly swatted at Rahvuun in a last act of defiance.

"Die." He said, stomping on the warrior's neck. He spat on the corpse before running to catch up with his Father.

**Excerpt VI:**

"Rally to the captain!" Screamed an Iron Warrior who was falling back to a bullet-holed barricade. It had been 55 days since they made planet fall on the jewel of mankind; Terra. Here the ultimate fate of Mankind would be decided. There would either be glorious triumph or death.

Rahvuun now assumed it would be the latter.

Around them, dozen of Throne-loyal Imperial Fists were closing in on them. Rahvuun's company were all but annihilated save for a handful of broken squads. And of that he was only in communication with two of them, both under strength. They had linked up with a support company of Iron Warriors leading the charge towards the Lion's Gate. Evidently, the support was no longer supporting.

The Iron Warrior next to him lost his head only seconds after shouting the order. Rahvuun grinned behind his helm. The fool's life blood was spurting from the wound, covering his shoulder guard in a deep crimson. Soon they would all follow his lead. Rahvuun turned and pointed his stolen chainaxe towards the loyalists.

"Death to the False Emperor! Kill! Kill!" His warriors took up the cry and turned, charging head on into heavy incoming fire. Several fell instantly when they turned, others continued to run, refusing to die. Rahvuun's ax was broken, the teeth long since broken and dulled. He full body tackled an Imperial fist, choking him to death on the ground. He lifted the warrior up and used him as a living shield, there was a dull thud of mass reactives pounding into the man's flesh.

He threw aside the dead Fist and charged at the next, ax held high. He hacked it's edge into the side of a shouting sergeant's head, felling him in one sweep. He turned on his heel, back-smacking another warrior with the pointed guard of the ax's head. He looked up in time to see his doom approaching.

In armor so finely crafted, so utterly untouched by war that it had no right being on a battlefield, a warrior bearing the black cross of the elite 1st Company of Imperial Fists came a warrior that was unmistakably a Black Templar. The warrior bore a large two-handed claymore, blue lighting danced across its killing edge. The warrior pointed at him. A challenge.

"Come traitor and answer for your crimes!" Shouted the warrior. The bastard was so sure of himself. Though Rahvuun knew he had the right. One didn't simply become a Templar without a large kill count and the skill to kill dozens with a single swing. Rahvuun tossed his ax aside, grabbing a chainsword from his latest victim.

He charged the Templar, the Nails buzzing madly inside his head. For a fraction of a second, he felt disconnected from his body. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but for an instant, he wasn't in control of his actions. The came face to face with swords separating them. Rahvuun knew his would be useless in comparison to the Templar's far more superior blade.

They broke apart then met again in a clash. Saw-edged teeth spun from Rahvuun's blade, the chain no longer revving. He parried desperately, knowing he had only seconds to live.

Then came his Father in his new skin.

Long had his Father been changed, his Brother, Lorgar, having changed him with his warp-magiks. His Father was no longer a gladiator king, but a barbaric...thing come from myth. A demon, he had heard his cousins in the Word Bearers call his Father. Hooves, horns, maw of serrated teeth, and wings. The only thing that remained of the Father were the Butcher's Nails. Angron barreled into the Templar, the man flung and landed awkwardly on the ground. To the warrior's credit, he recovered quickly, but not fast enough to guard against a Primarch. Angron was on him in seconds, and lifted to the warrior of the ground. One hand held him by the neck, the other encompassed his head. Angron pulled. There was an audible crack, and moments later, the head of a revered Imperial hero rolled to Rahvuun's boots.

There was a look of anger and disgust on his Father's face. But, surprisingly, it wasn't towards him.

"We are falling back. To the ships." The Father spoke from a mouth with too many teeth and looked at the handful of his sons, and those of his Brother's sons. They all looked at Angron with knowing eyes.

"Horus has fallen. We have lost."

**Excerpt VII:**

The Conqueror limped through space. They had barely escaped the chaos that was Terra's space yard. Imperial orbital batteries returned to their control, and they punished the Traitor ships. Everything had gone wrong.

None knew for certain what it was that changed the pace of the war. Some say that Horus had broke in the last moments of the assault, others say the Primarchs were to blame, more still whispered that the Emperor himself had taken to the field. All Rahvuun knew is that it was a miracle that he, let alone this bastard ship, were still alive.

The ship was quieter than what it normally was. Deck ratings had ceased their endless attempts to make minor repairs to the ship, warriors of the XII Legion secluded themselves or broke away into splinter groups. Their Father's armada eventually became a small fleet of veteran war ships and a handful of under strength companies of Astartes.

They had salvaged very little from the Siege of Terra. Few mar machines, little armor and weapons, and even less biological salvage. Indeed, the loss of so much gene-seed would hamper the Legion's reconstruction.

Rahvuun laughed. It was a pathetic, wet cackle of one. The thought that the Legion would even bother to rebuild was laughable. The World Eaters were nothing more than blood thirsty killers. He suspected that very few of the Apothecaries still remembered their trade, or even cared enough to salvage from the Dead Fields.

He sat in the cold confines of his spartan room. Little more than a bed and an armor rack adorned the small space. He was hunched in the corner, staring at his helmet. It was cracked and dented in a dozen places. The internal circuitry no longer worked.

He lazily dropped the helm. It rolled until it finally halted, staring at him in grim disdain. He looked at his reflection in the green eye lenses. He was a portrait of scars, bruises, and burns.

The Nails had been quiet for days. Curiously, Rahvuun couldn't tell if that was a blessing or a curse. He had grown used to the buzz of the Butcher's Call. Without it, he had only himself to deal with.

Father.

Angron had secluded himself in the bowels of the ship. Only few were allowed to see him. He was not one of them, nor would he ever be. Rumors had it that several of the Captains were going to splinter off after the next warp jump.

Rahvuun no longer had a company. Most had died in the initial first days of the assault. Four squads were all that he had. He and his men would most likely be absorbed into another company.

Like many of the Legion, he had adopted the new colors. Red the color of dirty blood. His Father had demanded they bathe themselves in the blood of their brothers, "For it pleases Khorne to see brothers killing brothers." His Father had laughed, a sight none had seen.

There was a knock at his door. He laughed quietly to himself. He knew only one of his "brothers" would offer him such respect. He hauled himself up and opened the door. A snarling daemon's face greeted him. His brother's helm had always amused him.

"Ravitus, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Rahvuun grinned. Ravitus stood quietly before answering.

"We are leaving. I offer you this chance to join with Captain Arkimades and become one of the Bloodied."

Ah, the Bloodied Warband. The psychotics among a legion of the insane. He had little choice. He no longer held the power to stop his company from being eaten up by a bigger one. It was that or be killed to a man. Rahvuun stooped down and retrieved his grimacing helmet and put it on. A hiss of pressurized air escaped his collar as it sealed to the rest of his armor.

"When do we leave?" He asked. The Nails began their siren song once more in his head.

**Excerpt VIII:**

Years in the Warp were centuries in the material realm. What had been a recent war that shook the very foundations of Mankind, had now faded into myth throughout the realm of the Imperium. The Loyalist Legions that remained had broken down into hundreds of thousands of Chapters, breaking themselves into these smaller groups of one thousand Astartes.

The Loyal Primarchs were either dead or had disappeared since the Long War had began. Rahvuun chuckled darkly. They were all Fatherless sons.

The Bloodied Warband had grown quite a name for itself. They were the Scourge of the Broken Stars in the Segmentum Obscurus quadrant. A section of space that had only a moderate Imperial patrol force. He had wet his hands with the blood of thousands of Imperial citizens and the thin-blooded Astartes in the colors of dozens of Chapters.

He was chained in the slave-holds of the mighty ship The Hunger, his form crucified in iron chains.

Across from him was a warrior whose skin was the blackest of obsidian, with eyes like the flames of a forge. Small scruff huddled about his chin and scars decorated his bald head. He was a warrior who could trace his blood back to Imperial Terra. His colors that of one of the original Legions. A Salamander. But more so, he was a traitor. This, too, earned another dark chuckle from Rahvuun.

"Silence yourself, Beheader. Your laughter is like nails to a chalk board." The Salamander said, his voice deep and rich with his Nocturnite accent. Rahvuun stared at his armored legs as they hung limp underneath him. His companion was similarly chained, but not in in the same way as him. He was allowed the comfort of being chained to the floor, in an ever meditative pose.

"My apologies, brother. I forget myself sometimes." Rahvuun replied mockingly. The Salamander spat at him.

"I am not surprised that a dog like you has never learned respect for your betters." This made Rahvuun laugh a third time, provoking a deep sigh from the green armored warrior.

"Khy'er, you are a worthless traitor forced into the service of a blood thirsty warlord in possession of little more than a handful of Astartes and worthless mortals. What you were in your pathetic Chapter means nothing here." The howls from other decks and torture rooms were all that answered his proclamation. The Salamander had killed his brothers and offered his life to Arkimades, the Bloodied's warlord. The Salamander sought power and forbidden knowledge, but the sons of Angron knew nothing of the warp's lore, though they were masters of blood letting and death.

The Salamander and the World Eater both looked towards the door as it rolled open on protesting, rusting ball-pins. Two warriors in the brown-blooded colors of the warband entered. One was massive in size, his Terminator armor all but dominating the open entry way. The second was clad in the similar armor of most Astartes. A pair of curved, bronze horns jutted from his helmet. It was the Terminator who spoke first as he made his way to release Rahvuun, while the other released Khy'er.

"We make ready for planet fall. We are assisting our cousins in their efforts to secure a monastery-fortress of the Imperial thin-bloods." Curious, Rahvuun looked down at the warrior before he was dropped on his numb legs.

"Who do we aid?" He asked.

"Mortemer the Basilisk, Warlord of the Hell Sovereigns." The Salamander, Khy'er bowed his head and made his way out of the holding cell. Rahvuun spat on the ground, forcing himself up on shaking legs as the Nails cried inside of his head.

"Where are my weapons?"

**Excerpt IX:**

Wars are never truly justified. Was the Emperor justified in his galactic war to reunite humanity, wiping out all those who opposed his rule or destroying hundreds of thousands of civilizations under the tracks of mighty war machines? Rahvuun ever really thought such things in the small moments of deployment, in the melancholy before battle meant everything.

The space around him was cramped, and there was only the screaming of atmospheric entry around him. He and a handful of others deployed by drop-pod. Rahvuun was officially the last remaining member of the XII Legion, World Eater's 36th company. None of the Bloodied's remnant squads would accept him as their own, so he was forced to deploy with a small band known as the "Traitor's Hand".

The squad was made up of six members. Khy'er, the Salamander, was the only one who he could tolerate. The others showed varying allegiances to Legions and Chapters both, a red 'x' crossing out their former ties. The pod was eerily quiet, none of the passengers making a sound. A chime sounded, which was followed by a metallic voice speaking over the howl of the burning air outside the pod doors.

"Landing in five, four, three, two, brace." The pod shook with bone jarring force. The pod doors opened up like the petals of a flower. The six Astartes charged out, a red sun greeting them. Around them was hell incarnate. Everywhere was destruction. Around them, the forces of Chaos charged an Imperial line of tanks and well fortified walls.

Hundreds of Astartes painted in the colors of the Hell's Sovereigns and the Bloodied, along with several other warbands, fell in droves. Waves of mortal cultists and turncoats also fell, their bodies torn to shreds from the massed incoming fire. Rahvuun couldn't help but to imagine the glorious charge of the Emperor's Palace back on Terra. Khy'er was next to him, his bolter held tight to his chest as he ducked behind the shell of a tank.

"We're as good as dead." The Salamander said. His red eyes betrayed no hint of amusement. Rahvuun grinned behind his helm. At the edge of his perception, he could begin to hear the Nails' buzz. Khy'er rose to fire off a volley of mass reactives, then ducked quickly as a hail of las-fire flew over them. Rahvuun looked down at his ax.

The blade was taken, as were most of his weapons, from the dead. A warrior of some thin-blooded Astartes chapter had attempted to hack him from collar to groin. Rahvuun had made his demise painful, and finally took the dead Space Marine's weapon as a prize. The ax's head was in the shape of a wolf's maw, the chain's teeth mimicking the beast's own.

"Again, you prove useless to me, Beheader." Said Khy'er, reloading his bolter, slamming the sickle clip home. He looked up and his stone face drooped knowingly as he looked at Rahvuun's posture.

"You can't be ser-." Before he could finish, Rahvuun was sprinting head long towards the heavily defended enemy line. From his safe position, Khy'er could hear the World Eater's howl of joy as he promised the Imperial soldiers death. The Traitor's Hand rose without grace and created a wedge of fire around their blood hungry ally.

Rahvuun was in the mortals' midst within minutes, his armor charred and burned in dozens of places. He spun and hacked and kicked and chopped as he killed the soldiers around him.

"Death to the dogs of the False Emperor!" He roared. Seeing his death defying charge, the hunkered down Chaos forces charged, taking up the cry. He took the arm off of a charging soldier, then drop kicked the man as he went to his knees. He climbed up the track guard of a nearby tank, using his ax to carve an opening in the command hatch, and dumped his whole bandolier of grenades into it. The explosion spread and took down a section of the wall, engulfing Imperials and Chaos cultists without prejudice.

They fought and continued to gain ground until they were at the gates. At this point, the siege forces pulled back and fortified their foothold. Rahvuun finally regrouped with his fellow Hands, finding them standing away from the other huttled groups of Astartes.

"Hail, Rahvuun." Greeted Khy'er, nodding to him. Rahvuun ignored him and sunk down in the red dirt next to him. The Nails were wailing and cared little for anything else but killing. His armor was cracked and he was covered in blood and grime. Khy'er crouched next to him, his eyes glinting with the setting sun.

"Our Lords come to lead the final part of the siege. The Basilisk wishes to speak to the warrior that broke the Imperial line." Rahvuun laughed like he always did. A dry, humorless, madman's cackle.

Thin bloods. They always sought the acceptance of their superior Legion cousins.

**Excerpt X:**

The victory rang hollow. Nothing more than a raid on a worthless world. Imperial scribes would write mountains of excerpts stating how the Imperium of Man suffered a tragic loss at the hands of Chaos. For Rahvuun, there was no glory to be found here.

But Rahvuun was never really a man of honor or glory.

Years of raiding, pillaging, murdering, killing, and desecrating ousted the last flames of glorification in his heart. There was only the call of the Nails, the taste of blood, and the sound of shifting, piling skulls. Yes, Rahvuun was not a man of honor.

He paced the entry way to the great monastery while the rest of the war host killed the remnant groups of Imperials throughout its catacombs. Along with not being a man of honor, Rahvuun was not a man of patience. The leader of the Hell Sovereigns requested his presence, and here he was. Present. Yet the pompous thin blood was nowhere to be seen.

It was at that moment that the giant marbled doors decided to part, the twin-headed eagle separating down the center as the two doors swung easily on well oiled hinges.

"Beheader," Called the Basilisk, "you have earned yourself a name in this great battle." The warrior strode with the gait of a conquering king. The skull-topped staff used as a walking stick as he came towards Rahvuun. Two warriors clad in Terminator armor followed in his stead.

"You wished to see me. Here I am." Rahvuun didn't keep the edge of annoyance from his voice. The Basilisk looked at him with eyes the color of a shimmering ocean. His features neutral as he came to a stop in front of the World Eater.

"I did. I want you to accompany me to the vaults, where this Chapter's gene-seed is stored." The Basilisk's eyes moved with the flicker of warp-fire behind them. He assumed it was unsettling to mortals, but Rahvuun felt more disgusted. He never liked the psychic -touched minds. They were cancerous doors to corruption. His hand tightened on his ax.

"And why would you want me to accompany you?" Mortemer grinned a too wide smile at the question.

"Because, the new leader of The Bloodied should accompany his ally to their spoils." Rahvuun said nothing at first. The Traitor's Hand looked around at one another, taking in what had been said.

"What of the Captain?" Asked Rahvuun, not curious out of worry, but for curiosity's sake. The Basilisk looked at him, grimacing almost theatrically. The man's pale features contorted with the gesture.

"He was useless. He suffered an...accident on the battlefield. A shame, really, but such is the way of war." The room electrified with the proclamation and Rahvuun could sense his brothers tensing. The Nail's sang louder in his head, his face twitching. He was losing control and would be gone soon. Khy'er sensed this and stepped between them.

"My Lord, I am sure my brother is honored. But the Captain was an old ally from the times of the Legion..." Khy'er put himself bodily in front of Rahvuun, feeling the murderous intent radiating from his brother. The Basilisk nodded, seeming to contemplate this.

"Indeed. Come, we've much work to-" Mortemer pressed his finger to his ear, the two Terminators turning towards the door as they created a living barricade in front of their liege lord. The Basilisk's face slowly curled into a mask of rage.

"We are too late. Your late Captain's actions have costed us valuable time, and now Imperial reinforcement has arrived." The news was greeted by a dry, humorless cackle.

"Our punishment has arrived." Rahvuun said when he was finished laughing. He made a show of wiping a tear from his helmet's eye lenses. The sarcasm seemed to infuriate the Basilisk even further.

"This is not a laughing-"

"Oh, but it is, thin blood. We kill them or they kill us. It is the one stable, most truest law in this galaxy." He gunned the engine of his ax into life, the teeth chewing hungrily through the empty air. "Let's go greet our guests." With that, Rahvuun marched passed the Terminator guards and out of the doors. The Traitor's Hand followed. Mortemer the Basilisk, Warlord of the Hell Sovereigns, watched the World Eater silhouetted by the burns of atmospheric entry. He smiled his all-too-wide grin and spoke to himself.

"I will have to kill you before you kill me it seems."

**Excerpt XI:**

Rahvuun ran harder and faster with each pump of his twin hearts. He spun and tripped with every ricocheting round that failed to take his life. Behind him, he could hear Khy'er cursing him as the Traitor's Hand struggled to follow their new maddened leader.

He couldn't wait for them. The Nails sang the most beautiful song he'd ever heard them sang: death. His death. It was a rush that he couldn't lose. The addiction of the promise of his death filled his body with endless strength.

The World Eater was made for this. To fight against the odds, to kill thrice as many men as it would take to kill him. He would die a warrior's death, atop a pile of the enemy dead as he bled from numerous wounds. He followed the path of a command Thunderhawk landing near a high rise similar to where the Chaos forces had landed hours ago.

Behind his skull-faced helm, he grinned. His eyes were wide as he killed mortal soldiers, seeing, not too far from him, the armored bodies of Astartes. He wanted their skulls, their blood. He would butcher them all and eat their eyes. He howled and he heard Khy'er sigh over the vox-network.

"Incoming!" He heard the ex-Salamander yell as the rest of the squad took cover behind the husks of destroyed vehicles. The Thunderhawk unleashed a shrieking volley of solid slug rounds towards him, the autocannon on the beak of the flyer rotating as it spat its hate at the still charging Rahvuun.

He rolled on his shoulder, springing as his feet found purchase back on the ground. He raised his pistol up in front of him and returned fire on the armored bodies underneath the grounded Thunderhawk. The yellow armored warriors turned and added their fire to the avian aircraft's. The air around Rahvuun filled with hostile rounds.

I will not die here. Not before they are all dead around me, he thought. He squeezed the trigger, the gun hammering in his hand. The helmet of one Loyalist exploded, then the chest of another, and the arm of a third turning into red mist bellow the elbow.

His armor a smoldering, hole ridden mess, he waded into them. He hacked with his roaring ax, and smashed his gun into the faces of others. After his sixth kill, he heard the servos of the gang-ramp lower from the Thunderhawk. He kicked the last remaining warrior in the chest, but before he could finish him, bolt rounds disemboweled him. He turned, snarling as Khy'er approached with his bolt gun aiming away from the stolen kill and into the compartment of the Thunderhawk.

Ten figures emerged. Each adorned in yellow armor, with capes the red of a forge's flame. Each figure's shoulder was exposed, revealing the head of a bird of prey in the same red. The lead figure's head bore a crest of red plumage, like a horse's mane. In one hand he carried finely crafted sword, inscribed with words that Rahvuun assumed was the home tongue of this warrior. In his other as a shield in the shape of the Imperial Aquila.

The Traitor's Hand slowly moved back, bolt guns aimed squarely at the enemy. The Imperial Astartes raised their own weapons in unison. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Traitor's Hand turned and fled. All except Rahvuun who stood his ground.

"Filth," Spoke the lead figure, "you should follow your allies and turn tail." The host stopped as they reached the red earth of the ground. Rahvuun growled as the Nail's buzzed their promise. Here was his chance for death. Here he would die at the hands of an Imperial Hero.

Rahvuun held up his ax, pointing at the crested-helmed figure.

"Come and die, Imperial dog." The leader turned to his warriors, nodding to them, and they lowered their weapons. They moved cautiously, but formed a circle with Rahvuun and their commander in the middle. The Commander removed his cloak and brought his shield up. Rahvuun wasted no time in the theatrics and charged.

His first swung was blocked, as was his second, third, and fourth. The warrior spun, sword-armed outstretched and cut a deep gouge into Rahvuun's chest. The armor sparked as the blade severed multiple cables to his armor's systems.

Rahvuun swung low, but again the shiled denied his ax. Annoyed, he grabbed the shield and pulled in towards him, his ax swinging over in a hacking arc. The warrior shoved the shield from his grip and retreated. But came back with a clean thrust to Rahvuun's throat. The blade ripped through the collar seal, but nothing more. Rahvuun tore the helmet and chucked it at the warrior, who ducked aside. The World Eater charged him, sweeping his feet underneath the yellow clad Astartes.

The warrior jumped, and while in the air, kicked Rahvuun squarely in the face. Blood dripped from his broken nose, but he continued on. He hacked back and forth, the ax barely missing. He grew tired and finally swung with both arms. The ax found no purchase, but his fist clubbed unto the warrior's head. He stumbled and Rahvuun pressed, hooking his fingers into the warrior's gorget and slammed his face into his knee. He repeated the process two more times before the warrior's sword stabbed into Rahvuun's foot. He howled, bringing his two clamped fists down like a hammer on top of the warrior's head. He removed the sword and and threw it. He reached for his ax, but felt the cold press of a bolter behind his head.

The other Astartes were all taking aim on him, but they shifted upwards as the Traitor's Hand opened up on them. Several bodies fell to the ground, but Rahvuun ignored them now that he was not their central focus. He grabbed his ax and buried the teeth into the man's stomach, letting the chain-weapon do the rest. He held the warrior down as the ax chewed through his stomach towards his spine.

He was knocked over and yellow bodies pressed around him, dragging his prey away from him. He yelled and roared at them, but felt himself being dragged. One by one, the yellow armored Astartes were falling. The Traitor's Hand was killing them to a man. But Rahvuun didn't feel his kill was stolen, or his glory. He was shaking.

The Nails had lied to him. The Nails promised his death, but he was still very much alive. Around him was chaos, every body running, the sound of battle slowly fading to the sound of desperate retreat.

"Oh...shit." He heard one of his brothers say, and he looked up. Above them, warships floated in low-atmosphere. He heard Khy'er's voice over the wide vox-net.

"The Imperials are firing on the planet! The Imperials are firing on the-."

Rahvuun's world turned into brilliant white and he could no longer feel, see, hear, or breathe.


End file.
